A Bargain
by shadowinkling
Summary: This is a one-shot that touches on the tone of the lives of our heroes, post-war trying to build back government, lives, and love. This story is Canon Divergent. Hermione/Remus. Inspired by a lyric in the Johnnyswim song "Summertime Romance."


A/N: This is the first story I have ever shared. Like so many of you, I have found tremendous comfort, joy, and inspiration from the brilliant series _Harry Potter_ and we create so we may give something back as a thank you.

Of course, I do not own any original content or characters, all credit goes to Madame Rowling.

This is a story for Remione shippers (I know some of you are out there, lurking) and I hope you enjoy!

\- Shadow Inkling.

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The soft click of her heels reverberated lowly around the dark, cobblestone street; the only sound accompanying the gently rustling leaves of the oaks. She twisted her neck in the hope of some relief, adjusting her satchel full of heavy tomes and reports that needed revision. The modern streetlights were coming to an end as she walked through the muggle-repellants and into the Wizarding community. The stark change in architecture and atmosphere had her reminiscing of times past; the Victorian lamps flickered lowly, some out all together. Being alone in the dark still triggered lingering instincts within her. She felt herself filling like an old cauldron, filling to the brim with anxiety, fueled by the deeply-rooted PTSD. Paranoia roamed behind her, stalking in every shadow, leashed to her like a snarling dog. The soft zephyr was replaced with echoes harshly whispering _constant vigilance_.

But those days were over. Though the remnants of war still clung in the hearts of those who fought, the dust had settled, time ticked by, and she fought still to rebuild the world that had so nearly collapsed.

Hermione Granger walked up the steps to the heavy door of her apartment building, tapped her wand to the wood, and stepped through. She rode the elevator up to the top floor, exhaling the long week and kicking off her work heels. She scooped them up and made her way to the door second from the end, on the left, with small chip at the left side, and a brass handle. She whispered the password and it swung open before her.

She entered into the simple, airy apartment, dropping her sensible shoes at the door, forsaking her usual tendency towards cleanliness in light of the heavy work days still lingering on her. She lay her bag on her desk, looking around the apartment for her flatmates. A soft snore from the couch turned her head. She walked over to the living room and an affectionate smile tugged at her mouth and heart.

All rumpled, all disheveled, all undone, with feet up on the armrest of the cozy couch was a sleeping man and a fluffy, old cat. Hermione aimed her wand at the kitchen to start the kettle, and gently unlaced and removed his scuffed, worn, brown shoes. "Crooks," she whispered, "Crooks, honey, would you like to eat?" The sleepy cat opened his bright, yellow eyes and slowly detangled himself from his nap partner. He silently jumped to the floor and began weaving himself between her ankles. Hermione, again, pointed her wand towards the kitchen to feed the feline. Her chest warmed with affection as she watched her old companion rub himself on her pressed trouser leg. As he scuttled over to the kitchen to wait patiently for the can of food to finish opening itself, old feelings of nostalgia washed over her.

She had read so many books, so many quotes from scholars and writers and artists that had so much to say about the past. That nostalgia was cruel and warped, that it was a solace, a paradise, a prison. Her scholarly mind always found validity in the writings, but when those emotions seeped into her own soul, it left Hermione always, always empty. Filled up, then hollowed out, left alone, and desolate. Left isolated on a beach, an ocean of memories before her, yet unable to bask in them without the pain and cruelty of what she lost pulling her under and forcing the air from her lungs.

She pushed the feelings aside and started methodically pulling each pin from her unruly, dark hair, tossing them onto the coffee table. One by one her long day, her long week, felt further and further away until the last pin was gone and her messy work hair fell down her shoulders and back in bouncy, brunette curls.

"I love it when you do that."

She turned and her eyes flicked down to the man with his eyes closed and a small smirk upon his scarred face.

"I'll never get used to that damn hearing of yours," she replied.

Tossing her cloak on the chair beside her, she lay down on the occupied couch, facing him; his arms wrapping around her in a practiced, protective motion. He buried his nose in her curls and she let her forehead rest on his chest, inhaling his chocolatey, earthy scent.

They lay in silence for a long while, listening to the ticking of the old clock, originally from Grimmauld Place, and Crookshanks's low, rusty purring. She matched his breathing and soaked in his warmth, feeling it fill all the cracks. Every crack that this week had reminded her of, every crack whether it small like ones on an eggshell, or deep and wide like the canyons engraved on the face of the Earth, were filled. His low, measured breathing, the smell of chocolate, earth, and pine, and the warmth of his arms filled them all.

She kissed his shoulder and his scratchy cheek and looked up to gaze at him.

"How was your day?" she asked.

His tired, green eyes flicked to the coffee table and back to her deep, brown ones as he exhaled a small sigh. She rolled to look over her shoulder and saw half-empty pages of parchment, a quill, and one solitary, used whiskey tumbler. She turned to face him again, his arms tightening, a hand threading into her wild hair, another gently tracing patterns between her shoulder blades.

"Couldn't focus?"

"Not on... Not on the book, no."

"What were you thinking of?"

He sighed and let his lips brush her forehead. His brow furrowed and the classic signs of a somber man retreating into himself bled across his features.

"'It is the secret of the world that all things subsist and do not die, but retire a little from sight and afterwards return again.'"

Hermione echoed his sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, hoping the embrace would start to fill the cracks, to heal him the way he healed her over and over again. She felt a sharp guilt within her at his words. How dare she let herself be plagued with thoughts of the ones she had lost? How selfish of her to become so myopic in her own pain that she lost perspective on those who had everything shattered before them, leaving every memory scorching to the touch. He let himself be held by her, letting out a shaky breath and holding her close. There they lay, seemingly the only things keeping each other intact.

He slowly loosened his grip and sat up, pulling her up with him, until she sat with her legs across his lap, her high-waisted, pressed work trousers over his wrinkled slacks. He rolled up the left sleeve of her shirt, gently tracing the mark of violence and bigotry on her freckled skin. She watched his face as his eyes gave away that even though they sat together, he was far away. He lifted her forearm to his lips and gently kissed the remnant of war, until he lay his hands on either side of her face and looked at her, soon drowning in the sweet color of dark chocolate. She gazed at him, practically hearing the gears and coils in his head.

"Remus, would you change it?"

Her question came more as a statement, and his brow furrowed, hands dropping to her shoulders. "Change what, darling?"

She paused, rethinking. "Would you change your life that brought you here? Every... every awful heinous memory, everything that happened? Erase every paranoid instinct, every memory to not have to feel... to feel so scared and empty and angry all the time? Would you change it?"

Remus's face relaxed with understanding. His marred, strong arms wrapped around her and brought her to his chest. The weight of it all finally tore the tiny string inside Hermione, and with one shaky inhale, she felt the tears begin to glide down her face. Remus held her, grief wrapping itself around his own heart with no intention of freeing him; but while he held an exhausted Hermione, he knew one truth.

This woman would alway give him hope.

She felt two fingers lift her chin up, clear green meeting shining brown. He gently wiped her tears away and pressed his lips softly to hers.

His kiss filled her with warmth and presence, it pulled her from the depths and back into reality, where she had purpose, even if it was only this. His touch filled not only every crack, every shatter, but filled her heart with adoration and fire as their magic thrummed pleasantly against each other. He was firm, but so tender, trying his hardest to give every ounce of affection and devotion he had for her into that one, lingering kiss. The kiss through tears and brokenness and the taste of firewhiskey.

He pulled away and smiled at her; at Hermione, that wise, kind, clever, impressive, powerful, _stunning_ creature who loved him. She stared at him, at Remus, this strong, smart, gentle, steadfast man who protected her. He gathered her close and rested his forehead against hers, breathing in her scent, a sad, quiet smile upon his lips.

"Love at any cost is a bargain."


End file.
